


A Sea of Candles

by That_Familiar_Feeling



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Eventual Adoribull Romance, I'm gonna play fast and loose with the locals and traditions, Iron Bull has a child, Maybe not this will be /wholesome/, Newborn, Not so Accidental Child Acquisition, Original Inquisitor in later chapters, Qunari, The Iron Bull has a kid, maybe smut?, original female child character - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-18
Updated: 2020-07-18
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:55:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25364221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/That_Familiar_Feeling/pseuds/That_Familiar_Feeling
Summary: She’s kneeling on a stone that blends into her legs, her hands are palm up in her lap and there's a bowl sitting between them that fills with the slow drip of tears from her face. He can just make out the pipe that leads to the roof, and assumes that whenever it rains she cries anew. There are candles attached to her shoulders with dripped wax, and a crown of dried flowers has been affixed to her hair with the same wax.It’s sad, and by far the simplest depiction of the human he’s seen. He appreciates that for once, she’s not on fire.---The Iron Bull is a man known for his romps and escalations. And his taste for Red-heads and shiny things. Both eventually catch up to him in a universe which delivers him a bundle of squishy vulnerable joy.Which will one day grow up to bring the world to its knees...This is an AU that definitely diverts from the Canon - because for every Companion story with a kid in it, Bull doesn't get ANY parental love and quite frankly its absurd this man is a DAD.
Relationships: Future relationship:, Iron Bull/Dorian Pavus, Some Charger Romance Shenanigans
Comments: 10
Kudos: 24





	A Sea of Candles

**Author's Note:**

> I live and breathe the 'accidental child acquisition' tag and decided to put a twist on the trope that a majority of DA fics seem to miss out on. We hardly EVER see Bull get to have a kid on his own, let alone bring said kid with him into the Inquisition. So this is that story and I already quite adore the little world I've made up for him and his own ankle biter. 
> 
> Will it be good? Accurate? Loosey Goosey and _maybe a little Juicy?_ IDK but it works in the meantime while I figure out my Inq. Cassian ideas and my Werewolf Lavellan plot bunnies. 
> 
> Also my other kid acquisition fic for Dorian bc once again I LIVE AND BREATHE and the number of times I've tried to give Dorian his own brood... That one is also pretty much done on the whole exposition side of things but it needs to be written out. I hope you like it though!

The Letter came with a harried looking courier. 

The traditional cream colored parchment had an official Chantry Sun seal. It was unusual to receive any missive from the human’s church, let alone one specifically sent to find him.  The Iron Bull gave the courier some extra coin for the hassle but the young man only shook his head and told him to find him in the tavern when his reply was ready. 

Altogether, the letter was rushed. Ink was smeared at the right hand side, and an angry scratch was striking through several lines. The entire thing stank of regret and subtle outrage:

_ Either you shall claim the Child, or I shall see to it that someone does so soon.  _

Shit.

* * *

It takes the company around a day to settle their affairs in the city. He doesn’t give them much in the way of explanation, but his Chargers know him as well as he knows them - and they follow behind quietly as the pleasant summer air cools into storm clouds. 

The whole trip he thinks. 

Less than a year ago, the Chargers were held up in a little town south of Verchiel for the beginning of their Harvestmere festival. They had only been passing through, but the sweet smell of cider and apples had drawn even their quietest member towards the festivities.

And then, there were dancers. 

The Bull remembers, he had set up camp off to the side of the main square to provide the locals with some free entertainment while his boys set off to scrounge up their own. Krem in particular was keen on raiding the local textile stall. The townsfolk gawked and eyed the Qunari with either polite fascination or open intrigue - both drenched in a heavy layer of good ole’ Southern Mistrust. 

The dancers came out of the tavern in a flurry of Autumnal colours. Each one spun and twirled along the cobblestones with the delicate chirping of bangles along their wrists and feet. Their outfits were Antivan inspired but the style was definitely Orlesian.  Around ten girls in all came careening down the road in full glory. They skipped around stalls and left behind slips of colourful fabric. They paired up and led the gathered crowd into a jaunty hop around the square. 

He saw some of his Chargers watching from across the square, some smiling with their armfuls of goods, some scowling like they had a fresh pile of pigshit stuck to their heel (Skinner looked downright murderous, but that was a default when in a ‘Shem-Town’).

But then his vision was covered in Plum and Ochre. 

She skipped around his wooden stool, her willowy frame twisting and contorting as her scarf fluttered around and her bangles tittered.  She smiled at him, all wide eyed and curious. The scarf slipped across his chest and he breathed in the scent of rosewater that perfumed it. 

_ She crushed the first blooms of Spring and added more with each new blooming bush. Her favorite grew out the back of the Chantry, heavy petals that dipped from blushing pink to solid gold. She poured in water from the well and oil from the walnuts in the orchard. He could taste the nutty oil despite her claiming it didn’t add much beside texture…  _

She danced around him like a butterfly. And he relaxed on his stool as she preened and pressed. Eventually the rattling of a tambourine shook up the crowd and the Dancers all started spinning on their heels. Around and around they went, the tambourine reaching a climax as a sharp whistle sounded from the makeshift band.  All the Dancers collapsed, some on each other, most into the open and cheerful arms of their townsfolk.  His Butterfly dancer gracelessly dropped to perch on his good knee, her smiling was blinding and her scarf was hung up on his horn. She had red hair, and the ends were dyed to match the Plum of her chosen colour.

He chuckled, and she beamed. 

* * *

It lasted all of three days. The majority spent spirited away in secluded rooms and quiet forest clearings. She showed him the little village and he showed her a good time, no harm meant and nothing of deeper meaning. 

She sat against his chest and he played with her long red hair.

_ “Me and the girls only need a few more dancers, and then we’ll have a real troupe set up. There’s this big party in Val Royeaux that all the new troupes get together for. We all perform and some of us get to go on and entertain the big snotty high-breeches. It’s the start that every well-known Dancer has had…” _

She had been starry-eyed and childish. She seemed like the sort to enjoy Val Royeaux and its luxuries. He could see her entertaining noble folk and Chevaliers. Maybe even running wild in Grand Justinian Parades…

But that starry-eyed girl was nowhere to be heard in the letter he received. Only a cold ghost of that passion was in the ink. She was serious as the dead, and he had no foolish notion that she would go against her own words.  The letter was a courtesy. It was the respectable end to a woman’s journey through motherhood, besides the obvious bloodshed. The Bull had no doubt she would see through with her decision to do away with the kid, and who knows what would have happened then…

So the right thing to do is reply. To set their course back towards that little town and to collect the potential orphan and whisk it away to an appropriate new home.

By all rights, the kid was  _ Vashoth _ . It could all be neatly packaged and shipped off to the Islands; as easy as handing off the kid alongside his sealed letters and missives and knowing the runners would keep both safe until arrival at Par Vollen where the infant would join a Kith of her age. 

But as much Qunari as there was in there, the child was also Human. And the Human’s around her were making it all too obvious how vulnerable a  _ newborn _ could truly be. The Qun could look past genetic pools, perhaps even profit off of fresh blood - but the human world was not so practical.

So, a week later, The Iron Bull and his Chargers roll into a town just South of Verchiel. They set up camp outside of the immediate township and prepare to keep the chilly Southern rain at bay.

* * *

He skips the whole of town by skirting around the back gardens and gateways. His boots splash through growing puddles or water forming in the split cobblestone path.

How vastly different an almost year could make, gone were the golden days of harvest and sun. It was all foggy grey and bitter cold now.

The Chantry Hall was simple and reminded him of the Southern Tevene churches tucked into the old country-lands. Places where you’d be hard pressed to find any magic of substance, where trades and barters relied on goods and services and not influence and power. The money went into scripture not architecture. 

But a Chantry is a Chantry, and the building was still the biggest in the town. Situated towards the back half of the living quarters, the building made up at least three of the average home. The garden was nice though, big and plotted like a community effort…

_ Skinner stormed through the door with a sneer. She had a smear of red across her tunic that turned the Qunari’s stomach until he saw the tiny seeds of fruit.  _

_ ‘Damn shems, damn their gardens and damn their hands. I hope their harvest rots in the barrel’ _ .

It was a bitter reminder. 

This town was bigoted and grossly segregated away from the rest of the world. Only the same kind of face was welcomed, and only the like minded individual could stay. That’s why they had only stayed three-days to begin with.  All the fat tomatoes in the world meant nothing when only the ‘locals’ could get a taste.

Something familiar flared up in his chest as he approached the double door entrance - something he’s felt with all of his Chargers, and he knew it was a form of possessiveness that came from his time leading the fight in Seheron.

_ His  _ Chargers,  _ His  _ soldiers,  _ His kid _ after all. His child who would have… well, who knows…

He never  _ knows _ .

Absolutely, there is a clutter of black-haired brats running wild. The oldest could be a teenager by now, could be braiding their hair and preparing for a siege.

But he  _ never _ will know for  _ sure _ .

_ It’s only a Probability. _

_ Some Tamarassan he spent time with, got ‘serviced’ from before sailing back South. One week with the Tamas and six months later Bam! New life for the Qun.  _

_ He doesn’t dwell, doesn’t stop to consider the probability that there were other letters, left unsent or worse, unreceived. He doesn’t allow himself to think about the missing ‘maybes’ that will grow into ‘what-ifs’. _

He stomps it out, knocks loose the thoughts and water off at the door politely before shuffling into the silent Atrium. 

The Qun doesn’t waste time, but they too find some material-to-secular standards. And the universal object of Faith is the simple wax nub of a candle. The Qun treated the candles as focusi, operating in classroom cathedrals. Here the walls also steadily rise upward; he can stand comfortable horns-wide in the middle of an aisle of stone pews. All around is row after row of lit candle and flickering flame. 

Someone in robes is patrolling the room’s outer length, occasionally stopping to observe t he sputtering of a candle and relight any that are caught in the new draft from the previously opened doors. A new initiate then, running the midnight vigil.  When they turn to begin the next length of their walk, the figure pauses and watches him. He’s a big guy standing in the softly illuminated room, and knows he makes for a sight when unexpected. But the initiate only nods once before briskly sweeping out of the room in the shadowy corridors that make up the Chantry’s back halls.

The Iron Bull waits, admiring the old marble statue of Andraste as she burns at the heart of a sea of candles. Each Chantry has its own unique iconography of their Holy Lady, but this one seems the saddest of the lot he’s encountered. She’s kneeling on a stone that blends into her legs, her hands are palm up in her lap and there's a bowl sitting between them that fills with the slow drip of tears from her face. He can just make out the pipe that leads to the roof, and assumes that whenever it rains she cries anew. There are candles attached to her shoulders with dripped wax, and a crown of dried flowers has been affixed to her hair with the same wax. 

It’s sad, and by far the simplest depiction of the human he’s seen. He appreciates that for once, she’s not on fire. 

The Initiate returns with company, this time it’s an older clergy member adorned in the robes of the Revered Mother. Neither is the Dancer.  They move down the pews with grace, and the dim light reflects off their worn gold embellishments with little flares of light on the stone. 

_ There _ . 

In the revered Mother’s arms is a bassinet basket. One of the hooded ones with a set of thick handles and a plain cloth canopy attached to cover the opening. 

_ “Je te laisse alors.”  _ The first woman, a much younger one, bows her head and politely backs away from the pair before returning to her vigil. The Revered Mother inclines her head first to her fellow then to The Bull, “Good Evening Serrah.” 

The Iron Bull bows his head back and quietly responds with “Evening Mam.” In the quiet din of the Chantry, his raspy voice feels distinctly out of place. 

“I greet you in the place of Sister Cameron, as she could not be drawn away to meet you. The initiate’s are deep within the bastion preparing for their vows. For now, Andraste has taken the young woman’s … precedence…”

_ Eyes shift to their right, glancing across the weeping Martyr’s face before pulling away. An old wrinkled line deepens and her scowl grows for a second before it strategically smooths away. Disdain, unable to be hidden, there is a deeply rooted sense of authority and privilege among the clergy that he knows too well-- _

She offers him the basket with a careful but strong grip. Her hands are weathered and deeply wrinkled, worn by years of prayer and service. She keeps a steady hold on the woven handles and carefully arranged canopy tied to it with a lilac coloured ribbon. There isn’t a wrinkle in the fabric and its been arranged to keep out the worst of the oncoming chill--

_ She does not approve. Not of the child, of an innocent bystander. Perhaps the conception, perhaps the circumstance, definitely with the hand-off, a second-hand dismissal of one’s own blood and bone. The woman is old and seasoned, this is surely not the first babe she has seen fit to escort away. Andraste does not beckon the Qunari to her side, but this woman has seen fit to equip the innocent with a fair cloak and lantern before a long journey… _

“I urged Sister Cameron to delay her missive, the child will now need a supplemented diet and some replacement for the milk she has been receiving. Sister Cameron was… insistent on the exchange being fulfilled now before she departs to join the other initiates on the pilgrimage to the Ten Year Gathering.”

_ She. _

_ A girl. _

_ Unwanted, unclaimed, hurriedly tucked away, a neat loose end to be burned straight. _

...

_ She wanted to be a dancer. She only needed a few more feet and she’d have a troupe to dance beneath the massive red scrolls of Val Royeaux… _

_ For the Qunari, six months is the estimated time for pregnancy. Sometimes more, sometimes less. Qunari younglings develop at double that of Humans, and plateau around three years old. S _ _ ix months of rapid growth inside a Human body? It could be compared to having a rather large parasite. Let alone the birth, Qunari infants were bigger… there’s a reason few half-blooded pregnancies ever made it to term. _

_ She was a dancer…  _

_ One way or the other, she made it to Val Royeaux. _

The Iron Bull Wraps one of his big hands around the handles while the other supports the bassinet from the bottom. There’s enough weight for a babe, and he guessed she was around maybe four months old. But, even if she’s only  _ just _ fitting into the basket then she’s still just too small for a Qunari infant.

He takes the the basket and sets it on a clean patch or stone, there are candles on either side and it gives him better light. He dreads it, pulling aside the canopy to reveal his consequences. 

But there is also a building anticipation - most likely built by the serious air and dim-light-ambiance. Like he’s an appraiser, and reviewing the newest exchanged treasure for someone’s collection - except it's his own personal menagerie.

The canopy moves without a sound.

Oh...she...she is  _ Tiny _ .

A veritable nest of thick soft blankets fill a deep bowl of woven chords, all in the uniform cream colour of the Chantry vestments. It creates a jarring contrast against her still newborn-flushed skin. It’s dark, charcoal on parchment kind of dark, and she’s got the pudge and squish of any babe. 

She’s dead asleep, despite being jostled and carried. And that’s not a Qunari trait, their newborns are just as fussy and anxious. One plump hand is loosely fisting the soft blanket while the other is pressed against her own cheek.  She has a full head of dark black coils, and a smushed nose that angles upward with the nostrils. No eyebrows though, or if there are any the hair is still paper thin and colourless. He thinks, if she were awake he’d see pale blue eyes…

It only took one look but he  _ Knows _ .

Gently he resettles the canopy and tightens the ribbon to secure the fabric.

“Is there anything else?” he whispers before he narrows his uncovered eye, “Any letter? Toy? Her  _ name _ ?”

This time the Revered Mother does not hide her chagrin, “The blanket with the embroidery helps her sleep. No toy was left with her, nor any letter. And no… she has no name. That will be left to you…” the woman reaches out to tenderly place her hand atop the bassinet, “Sister Cameron has devoted herself beyond her past life and it is with a ‘ _ regret’ _ that she acquiesces the Girl.”

He snorts, and it echoes. They both flinch at the sound and the way the candles all seem to settle for a second before resuming their dance.

_ She was a Dancer… _

“Well, then we’ll be off.” He picks up the bassinet basket and arranges it in both arms as securely as one can. He inclines his head in a respectable bow that is returned by the Revered Mother. 

He can already feel cogs and gears churning in his mind, but not like that of the great Machinery that builds the Dreadnaughts - it’s subtle and chiming like a music box. 

_ She was a Dancer. _

The Revered Mother slowly extended her arm and ushered him through the pews. Above them Andraste watched as they walked towards the doors…

“I am Mother Evangeline, and should you inquire as to Sister Cameron’s whereabouts in the future, I may be allowed to assist you.” Though her eyes never strayed from the path ahead, she still sank with a weight as they distanced themselves from the Atrium.  She opened both doors for him and when he stepped past she once again bowed.

“Walk in the Light, I wish you both a long life.” 

“ _ Panahedan _ ” he dipped his head and turned away to begin the short walk. The weather had let up just so, now misty and dewey everywhere. He could feel the mist sticking to his eyelashes. 

Behind him the doors shut with a solid thump, and somewhere nearby the choir tower was awaking in a low refrain of the Chant.

_ The one who repents, who has faith, _

_ Unshaken by the darkness of the world, _

_ She shall know true peace. _

**Author's Note:**

> If you know me, you know I have a hard time finishing things but I WILL try bc DA is the love of my life and this story is really trying to be something. I'll try, and I'll try to fight off this depression to get it going.


End file.
